


Breathe in Enough Air

by thewindupbird



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:58:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5595547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewindupbird/pseuds/thewindupbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of a parent, Bathilda's chaotic kitchen, first meetings. Albus felt like he hadn't been able to catch his breath properly all summer...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe in Enough Air

Albus dreaded the familiar metallic click, the creak of the old wooden door being pushed open as he and Aberforth trudged up the road to home. It was too hot, and they’d had to be in town to close their debt on their mother’s funeral arrangements, and the last thing he wanted to do in that moment, was be sociable.  
  
Bathilda, of course, poked her head out of her door anyway and called them in, and for the first time that day, Albus met Aberforth’s eyes and they shared the briefest long-suffering look which was something of a relief, Albus had to admit, since they’d spent the better part of the day, the better part of the _week_ , forced together and pretending that they weren’t. They’d hardly spoken three words to one another, and so the solidarity was surprisingly uplifting.  
  
Bathilda’s kitchen was chaotic in one corner, teetering pots and dirty plates, but the rest was spotless as usual.  
  
“I thought you boys would be coming this way about now,” Bathilda was saying, doing something at the counter with her back to them. “And, Albus, how did everything go?”  
Albus was busy puzzling out how he could insist upon _one cup of tea_ , and not _several_ without being rude, and so there was rather too long a pause before Aberforth, giving him a rather miffed look said, “It was fine, Ms Bagshot, thanks, and it’s all sorted now, so...”  
  
Bathilda made a soft affirming noise and nodded. She turned then and set a covered dish on the table, wrapped in a towel and still hot. “It’s well past supper, so I thought I’d make you something.”  
  
It wasn’t the first time she’d made sure they had something to eat. Albus was beginning to wonder if the casserole dishes were conjured or if she just had an endless supply somewhere, since they had so many of hers sitting at home and languishing, unwashed for weeks, by the kitchen sink. If so, he was impressed -- conjured containers didn’t hold up well at all with anything particularly hot or cold and he was about to ask her when there was a soft noise in the hallway and Albus looked up sharply. A tall, blonde boy had appeared as though this were his house and he was rather surprised to find the other three in it and Albus had the strong impression that he’d been standing for some time just on the other side of the wall, listening. His appearance, the sound of his clothes rustling as he moved had all been a little too sudden.  
  
“Ah, Gellert,” Bathilda said, moving to him and touching his shoulder. She had to reach rather high. “This is my great-nephew. Gellert these are the Dumbledores from just over the hill, Albus and Aberforth. He’s here visiting me, for the Summer.”  
  
Albus couldn’t recall ever hearing of anyone named Gellert and from the corner of his eye, he watched Aberforth rub the side of his nose rather aggressively as he did when he was displeased, and Albus didn’t know whether to be disturbed or take comfort in the fact that they had both had the same thought: That this was someone new, a stranger, and therefore someone else that they would have to protect Ariana from.  
  
Still, Albus smiled at him rather benignly, and it was easy since Gellert wasn’t looking at him at the moment. Perhaps he’s caught the movement from the corner of his eye, but all too suddenly, his eyes flickered from Aberforth to Albus, caught the smile at its tail end as it faded, and broke in to a lovely, wide smile of his own. Albus’s breath caught, and he dropped his eyes and reached out to take the dish from the table, wrapping it carefully, murmuring a thank you but suddenly there were long, cool fingers over his own, to slip the dish from his hands. “I will take it,” said the other boy, this Gellert, and Albus looked up rather too suddenly, shaking dark red hair from his face. Gellert’s eyes were an impossible colour. Not quite blue or grey, but pale like that, odd-looking in the last orange glow of daylight faded over the hill. Their fingers were still touching and rather awkwardly, Albus slipped away, dealing with the hot ceramic, the towel, and those long, cool fingers. He succeeded, thank Merlin, without dropping anything, or looking particularly like an idiot.  
  
“That’s all right,” Aberforth said, suddenly, stepping forward to take the dish, obviously meaning to deny Gellert any sort of accidental invitation for him to come to theirs, but Albus reached out and caught Aberforth’s wrist, pulling him towards the door very much like he was four and not fourteen and said “Thank you,” and gave the strange boy a smile before he extended his thanks to Bathilda as well.  
  
Back out on the dusty road, the three of them walked abreast, Aberforth fuming silently to his right, and Gellert on the left with the dish. It wasn’t far to their house. Just over the hill and down to the dip in the valley where their own house lay, already in shadow as though it were shrouded, somehow, the exterior itself a bad omen of what had happened there.  
  
It was rather dark in the house. And of course, the door opened onto the kitchen, which was a sheer disaster. Nothing like the controlled chaos of Bathilda’s few dirty pots and pans, but rather all the dishes they owned, dirty and unwashed, collecting in the sink and around it, and on the table as well. Albus, rather mortified, shoved some dishes aside so there was a spot for the dish Gellert carried and set it down. There wasn’t a sound in the house -- perhaps Ariana was sleeping, or otherwise occupied, or in another one of her moods. Often she would shut herself away and refused to eat or see anyone. Most of the time, it was only Aberforth who could persuade her to come out of her room.  
  
“Thank you,” Albus said again, turning to Gellert and wondering where the rest of his vocabulary had flown off, too, and rather wishing he would turn and leave now rather than see the rest of the disaster that was their house. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, dragging his fingers through his hair. “It’s not normally like this, our mother died a few weeks ago, and we--”  
  
He cast about. They’d been fighting like cornered rats, he and Aberforth, and Ariana had shut herself away more often than she’d been out. Her hair hung in filthy strands about her face and her nails had been bitten bloody again, when Albus had seen her that morning. She’d screamed and screamed when they didn’t allow her to come with them to town and she was probably still angry. Gellert didn’t say he was sorry for his loss. Albus found himself profoundly thankful for that and wondered, absently, if that was an appropriate reaction.  
  
Suddenly, he was profoundly tired. He looked back over his shoulder, and watched, annoyed, as Aberforth found a fork and ate straight from the dish they’d just brought over.  
  
“Couldn’t you find a plate?” he asked.  
  
“They’re all dirty,” Aberforth answered, mouth full. He was pointedly ignoring Gellert, probably hoping he would leave soon, and Albus found himself simply wishing himself away, and out of this mess -- the kitchen, his siblings, their life here. He was supposed to be halfway around the world by now, not here doing... this. All of it was an impossible tangle of absolute shite, and left him feeling strangely winded -- like he couldn’t breathe in enough air.  
  
_For Merlin’s sake, Aberforth, get a fucking plate_ he thought viciously.  
  
“Well then,” he said, pleasantly instead and turned away. “Save some for the rest of us, won’t you?” he asked the floor, and then met Gellert’s eyes again -- he couldn’t read them, and he felt something inside him stutter: his heart or of his breath -- or something that had been dormant for a long time. For ages, all he’d felt was anger and frustration and grief and duty. This was something else.  
  
“Come, I’ll walk you back,” Albus said to Gellert. It was utterly unnecessary. It was less than five minutes away, and Gellert wasn’t some pretty milkmaid that needed escorting from the house to the barn and back again, but he desperately needed to not be here, needed to be separate from all of this, his life.  
  
Gellert tipped his head just a little and then said, “All right,” and for the first time in weeks, Albus felt like he was able to catch his breath.


End file.
